


Gods and Monsters

by TJ (tjvicious)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - No One Direction, Anal Sex, Established Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Established Zayn Malik/Liam Payne, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fantasy, Gay, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex, Supernatural Elements, Urban Fantasy, Vampires, Werewolves, Witches, larry stylinson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28404519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjvicious/pseuds/TJ
Summary: Harry Styles has lived several lives and he has only truly loved one person - Louis Tomlinson.Louis never wanted immortality and struggles to accept the hand fate dealt him even though he loves Harry more than anything.The two of them must learn to navigate their lives as immortals, their love for each other, and the struggle of keeping one's autonomy despite the visceral bond between sire and progeny.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Comments: 18
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

Yorkshire, UK  
November 9th, 1819

The boy is dying.

He can feel it in the way his body weakens. He can see it in the way his vision darkens around the edges. It is cold outside, colder as he lies in the snow, but he cannot feel it. He breathes in quick, gasping breaths, small puffs of winter air dissipating in the air in front of him. There is a metallic taste on his tongue that he knows is blood, and there is a deep ache somewhere in his chest though he can barely feel that either. 

He is alone and he is afraid.

He does not know for how long he lies dying in the snow, unable to bring himself to move, unable to call for help. He wonders if anyone will come for him, or if they even realize he is missing. He should not have gone off on his own, should not have ridden ahead of the others. But how could he have known this would happen? 

He is not even sure what it is that attacked him, only that he had fallen from his horse and that a hoof had stomped on his chest. 

The boy has not thought about death much before, but if he had this is not how he would have imagined it. It is not a comforting thought, to be alone as he takes his last breaths, so he forces his fuzzy thoughts to something else, something much more pleasant.

He thinks of a pair of bright green eyes and soft brown curls. Of gentle hands and soft lips. At least the boy can say he experienced love before he died. It is more than some, though he cannot help but feel as though he was robbed. He ought to have had more time. It is not fair.

The boy hears his name somewhere in the distance but he thinks it must be his imagination, a desperate longing. It sounds familiar. It sounds like him. 

His name again, closer this time, and he knows that voice intimately. The boy forces his eyes open, clinging to the last moments of his life so he can see his lover one last time.

The boy will not die alone after all and it brings some strange comfort.

The snow beside him is disturbed as his lover falls to his knees beside him, the last bit of light having sunk behind the trees. When the boy looks up at his love, he wants to cry. No, he is not ready to die. He is not ready to leave the beautiful creature who ever so gently takes him into his arms.

I’m sorry, his lover whispers. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

The boy wants to tell him that he has nothing to be sorry for, that he is here and that is all that matters. But when he opens his mouth to speak, blood bubbles from between his lips and he coughs. It causes a searing pain in his chest and he whimpers softly. It is all he can manage to reach up to his love and touch soft curls once more. Hopefully, it is enough and his love knows just how he loves him.

I will fix this. I will not let you die. I cannot.

The boy smiles faintly, his heart breaking because he knows there is no fixing him. He will die here in the forest, in the snow, but in the arms of the person he loves most.

He doesn’t try to speak again, and his lover pulls him in closer, holding him tightly. He can feel the brush of curls against cheeks as a face buries against his neck.

I will fix this. 

It’s a desperate whisper and the boy wants to believe it so much.

The last thing he feels is the sharp sting of teeth against his neck and he gasps, using the last of his strength to grip his lover’s shirt. Then there is a wrist pressed to his lips, and blood on his tongue that is not his own. Some primal desire to survive sparks inside of him and he sucks at the wound greedily.

It is going to be alright now, my love. Nothing will ever harm you again.

The boy does not know what that means but it does not matter. Not as the world around him finally fades and he finds solace in these arms that hold him protectively.


	2. Chapter 2

Los Angeles, USA  
February, 2016

The only sound in the room is even breathing from the body that lies next to him. It’s dark in the room save for the wash of moonlight through the sliding glass door, which is open to let a cool breeze in. Outside the room is a cacophony of traffic and the ocean crashing against the shore. 

Unlike his partner, Harry is wide awake and contemplative. It’s hard to lie still now that he’s sated and he slips from the bed quietly, not bothering to put on any clothing as he crosses the room to the balcony on the other side of the glass doors. There’s two chairs and a small table with an ashtray, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. Harry’s never been much for human vices though he pulls a cigarette from the pack and places it between his lips. He lights the end of it and inhales deeply. It doesn’t burn as much as it would if he was human as his lungs expand. He holds it for a moment before releasing the smoke in a white gray stream. It’s not about satisfying an urge as it is having something to do with his hands.

The lights of the city beyond the balcony glitter against the dark velvet sky and he is glad he chose to settle in Los Angeles. Harry knows he will have to leave one day, when the people around him begin to notice he doesn’t age, but that is something he has time to come to terms with. He’s done it so many times by now it’s as familiar to him as breathing. Which is also strange considering he isn’t quite alive, though not quite dead either. It’s a strange half-life he’s been given, able to appear human while no longer being human. Really, he is fortunate in that regard because not all of his kind are chameleons. He can blend. Humans are none the wiser. 

Harry turns and leans his back against the rail of the balcony, the half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. Despite the dark, he can see just fine and his eyes travel over the person in the bed. The sheet is low on his hips, revealing a gently muscled torso and pale skin that’s not mottled with bruises. His companion for the evening drew him in with blue eyes, tousled brown hair, and a mischievous smile. From a distance, the human could have been _him_. It was only upon closer inspection that Harry realized the human’s eyes were not quite as blue, his hair is a shade too light, and he’s too tall. It hadn’t stopped Harry from choosing him though. He’s been doing this for decades; choosing people who have similar features to a man he had loved and lost many, many years ago. Sometimes they’re male, sometimes female, and sometimes neither. Harry has become adept at not letting his ex-lover’s name slip past his lips in the heat of the moment even if it’s who he is thinking of. 

He’s gotten better, of course, upon a little self-realization that seeking out those who look like his lost lover offered him no respite. Now it’s only occasionally he seeks out someone that resembles his old flame. 

Harry puts out the cigarette as his companion begins to stir and he reminds himself that his name is Alex. A moment later, Alex joins him on the balcony and arms slip around his waist, their bodies naked and pressed together. Alex grins up at him and Harry returns it, knowing this moment is about to come to an end. They always do. Relationships with humans are too messy. 

“Come back to bed,” Alex says softly, his lips at Harry’s throat. “I like the way you bit my neck earlier.” 

Harry chuckles softly, his hands coming up to cup Alex’s face. “I should go.” 

“Why? It’s not that late.” 

Honestly, he’s surprised Alex didn’t sleep through the night after Harry fed on him while they fucked. He underestimated the human’s stamina. It means he’s going to have to alter his memories, erase himself from Alex’s life so Alex doesn’t seek him out. He’s not a fan of playing with their minds because it’s precarious. If he’s not careful, he can cause irreparable damage to their psyche. 

Harry sighs softly and plants a gentle kiss against Alex’s lips, desperately wishing Alex was someone else. And he knows when that type of ache begins in his chest, he has to leave. 

He breaks the kiss and looks into Alex’s eyes. 

“I’m going to leave this room and you will never think of me again. You’ll forget my face, my name, and anything that happened between us,” he says slowly, his voice almost melodic. He ignores Alex’s frown because it won’t matter after tonight. Not as he slips into a near trance. Any physical evidence of Harry feeding on him has already been taken care of. “Goodbye, Alex.”

Harry wastes no time in collecting his clothes and leaving Alex’s apartment, knowing he has a small window of time before the spell is broken. 

Once he’s outside, Harry turns his eyes up to the window that leads to Alex’s window and releases a breath. He tells himself it’s easier this way because Alex can never be who Harry wants him to be. It’s not fair to either of them, really.

He can remember the first time they spoke like it happened yesterday because Louis Tomlinson is irreplaceable.


	3. Chapter 3

_Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality._

\- Emily Dickinson

London, England  
August, 1818

The sun has nearly sunk below the horizon as Harry walks casually along the sidewalk that runs horizontal to the River Thames. The gas lamps have just begun to spark to life, and only a few people hurry along as daylight fades. Harry has been walking this same path for weeks, since a rather chill night to a young man on a bench, hunched over a leather bound book he was sketching in. At the time, Harry kept his distance though he soon learned that the young man returned to this bench nearly every night to draw. Each night Harry sits on the next bench over, watching as the young man sketches and sketches, focused on nothing else. 

For weeks they do little more than acknowledge one another with a simple nod or a small smile, but they never speak. Harry cannot bring himself to ruin the artist’s concentration lest he be working on a masterpiece. Though he finds it becomes harder to hold his tongue the longer they spend together in silence. Something about the artist lures him in like a moth to a flame. Perhaps it is how he furrows his brow in concentration, or the way the charcoal seems to glide across the paper so seamlessly. Perhaps it is the way the artist’s hair falls into his eyes, shielding them from passersby. Harry feels such desire to brush the hair from his face, to look into his eyes just to see what color they are. 

More importantly, Harry wants to keep the lovely young artist to himself, and that will be an incredible feat. There is little he could hide from his sire. Harry cannot explain what about this human makes him want to act so selfishly, only that he does. He will have to work hard to protect the artist from Isabella.

By the time Harry approaches the bench, the last rays of light die away, replaced by the shadowy cast of the gas lamps along the sidewalk. He doesn’t speak as he takes a seat on the opposite end of the bench from the artist and tips his head back toward the sky. It’s a shame the smog covers so much of the sky that is no doubt glittering brightly with stars. Then he sneaks a peek at the young man next to him to find there was a slight smile upon his lips. Excellent.

“What fascinates you so that you wish to immortalize it on paper?” he asks. “Is it something private you wish not to share with another?” 

The artist pauses in sketching and looks up at Harry, their eyes meet and he sucks in a breath that is not strictly necessary. The artist’s eyes are the brightest blue Harry has ever seen in a human, framed by soft brown locks of hair. The artist’s jaw is sharp, slightly scruffy, and Harry finds him even more attractive. 

“They’re not so private,” he answers finally. The artist turns the book so Harry can see what he has been drawing. “There is an elderly woman who feeds the birds on the stairs of Westminster Abbey. The story goes that she lost her husband nearly twenty years ago and still wears black in mourning. Her sadness - her loneliness - it’s nearly palpable. I don’t believe I could ever truly sketch that but I try.” The artist gives him a small smile. 

It’s difficult to force his eyes away from the artist to study the picture below him, the way the lines are smudged in certain places to give depth to the scene, the sadness that radiates from the woman’s face. Harry thinks the artist is not giving himself due credit.

“I think you have captured it marvelously. It’s like you can feel her pain. It’s quite extraordinary,” he says. “I have heard there are people in the world who can feel the emotions of those around them. They’re called empaths. Perhaps you are an empath.” Harry smiles conspiratorially. “My name is Harry. What’s yours?”

“Louis,” he replies, his cheeks slightly red. “An empath. I had never known there was a word for it. I must admit that I find it exhausting to feel the emotions of the people around me, especially in large crowds.”

“Louis,” Harry repeats, testing the name on his tongue. It’s a lovely name. “What am I feeling right now? Can you identify it?”

For a brief moment, Harry thinks he has gone a step too far. Louis’s brow knits and he stiffens imperceptibly. If Harry had been human he might not have noticed at all, but his supernatural senses alert him to the smallest of movements. He can sense the sudden unease in Louis and he smiles gently. 

“You needn’t worry, Louis. I will tell no one your secret.”

It seems to ease the artist and he gives a small nod. “Thank you, but I don’t know what you’re feeling at the moment. It’s so strange. I can’t read you at all. It’s actually...it’s a relief to not be assaulted by emotions that aren’t my own.”

“Interesting.” Harry raises a brow. Perhaps being a vampire made it impossible for an empath to read his emotions. “Well, I will just have to tell you then. I’m feeling pleased to have finally learned your name and to be having a conversation with you, Louis.”

“After weeks of meeting in the same place, I’m pleased about this, too.” Louis closes the drawing book and places the charcoal in a small bag at his side. “What do you do, Harry? Are you from London?”

“I was born in Manchester, actually, though I have spent some time in London. I’ve only recently returned from traveling. I’m a musician,” he explains. It’s a heavily edited version of the truth. “What do you do other than art, Louis?”

“I’m from Doncaster,” Louis says, his eyes lighting up. “My family sent me here for an apprenticeship with a barrister. My father believes it is a noble thing to be a man of the law though I have no passion for it. Art has always been my passion though my father believes it to be a waste of time. Oh, I envy your ability to travel to far places for your music. You must have seen the most wonderful things.” Excitement brightens his eyes and Harry feels an ache of longing in his chest. 

“Art is hardly a waste of time and you shouldn’t allow anyone to tell you that. If that is where your passion is then you should pursue it relentlessly,” Harry says, though he realizes he speaks from a place of many privileges. “You don’t have to envy me, Louis.” He slides closer to the other man on the bench. “Perhaps if we get to know one another then I could take you with me. I could show you the places I’ve been and the cultural art each place has to offer. It’s beautiful.”

Harry can sense both the hesitancy and the longing coming from Louis. It radiates off him like heat from the sun - or at least from what Harry can remember. They may have only officially met moments ago, but Harry can tell that Louis is not meant for the life of a barrister. His spirit is bursting at the seams, wishing to be free to pursue his own dreams. Harry merely has to look into his eyes to see it. It makes him want the human more.

“Would you come to my home tomorrow night,” Harry asks impulsively. It’s a risk even though Isabella was gone, on some jaunt with a noble fallen under her spell. He will have to make sure there is not a trace of Louis left for his sire to find when she returns lest she take it upon herself to torment Harry by taking the human from him. “You have shared some of your art with me. It seems only fair that I return the favor by playing for you.” 

“I’ve hardly shared anything with you,” Louis points out. “It hardly seems like a fair trade.” 

Harry grins, leaning in so the distance between them becomes smaller, his voice low and almost seductive. “Then I suppose I will just have to come to your home to see more of your work to make it even.” 

Louis’s pulse quickens. Harry can see the flutter of it beneath the skin, and it calls to him. He runs his tongue over the small, sharp canines unconsciously. Harry wants his blood, craves it even, though he will not allow himself to feed from Louis. Not yet. There is much more he wants from the human. Companionship, to begin with, and perhaps a lover later on. 

“I would like that,” says Louis breathlessly. “Even if I never see the places you have been, perhaps you will tell me about them. It will almost be as though I were there.” 

The grin on Harry’s lips softens and he nods, a hand coming to cup Louis’s cheek. He runs his thumb over the apple of Louis’s cheek and says, “I would love nothing more.”

It surprises him how comfortable Louis appears to be with him, and assumes it’s because the attraction between them is overriding any concern. Honestly, he wonders if Louis will feel the same once he walks away, or if he will return the next evening to hear Harry’s tales. Once Harry is out of sight, will Louis’s rational thinking step in and caution him to stay away. He is, after all, a predator. 

So he is reluctant to let Louis go as the hour grows late. Harry offers to walk him home, which earns him a brilliant smile and flushed cheeks. It’s unfortunate that Louis does not live far and they’re on his doorstep much too soon. Harry’s hands are in the pockets of his overcoat, lest he reach out for Louis and pull him in close. It is too soon, even if the flutter of Louis’s pulse belies his casual demeanor. Harry simply bids him farewell and disappears into the night. 

The next night, he’s pleased to see that Louis has returned to what he has subconsciously begun to refer to as their spot. Louis makes himself comfortable with his sketchbook in his lap and he draws while Harry tells him of his time in the French court to perform for the king and queen, how he had perfected his French with the help of one of the queen’s ladies. Louis seems less than thrilled with the idea and it leaves Harry feeling oddly satisfied. Louis has a jealous streak, apparently, and he relishes the idea. 

Harry tells him stories of Russia and his travels to Asia and India, about the cultures he has learned about and how it has helped him refine his own talents. He doesn’t; however, tell Louis that he has not traveled alone. In fact, if he never has to tell Louis about Isabella he will be content. And he will do his damndest to make sure Isabella never finds out about Louis. 

Harry knows it will turn out badly for all of them if she learns about Louis, if she recognizes the infatuation Harry has with him. It is an infatuation that used to belong only to his sire and has long since faded. Whereas Louis’s jealousy is harmless, Isabella’s is violent. They have shared partners in the past, often choosing lovers that appeal to both of their tastes though it was always fleeting. They have never entertained humans for long, always returning to each other in the end.

Louis is different. Louis makes him feel things he has not felt in a very, very long time. It tantalizes and frightens him because he knows it is fleeting. Louis will grow old one day and pass on to a place that Harry cannot follow. He knows better than to become attached. He has seen the toll it takes on his brethren when their human lovers die. But it has never stopped him before.


	4. Chapter 4

_"I plant roots so deeply in the people I love that I always lose a piece of myself when they go."_

_-Beau Taplin_

Berlin, Germany  
December 31st, 2016

“Do you have to go?” 

Louis looks over his shoulder to the woman behind him and offers a small smile. She sits curled up in an armchair, a fantasy novel open in her lap though he has not heard her turn a page in the last several minutes. They chose not to spend New Year’s Eve among a large crowd of people, neither of them particularly great in social situations or large crowds. So they chose to spend it in the apartment they have been sharing for the last few months, her reading and him painting. Though just like she has not been reading, he has been staring at the tablet in his hands for a long time, seemingly scraping the bottom of his creative well. It’s likely because he is distracted because he knows things are about to change. Louis has grown used to change often but he is an emotional creature and it is difficult to walk away every time.

Her name is Catalina and he is heartbroken to leave her.

“I have to,” he says finally. “But I don’t want you to think it’s easy or that it’s anything you did. It isn’t. You know that, right?”

She hesitates, then nods slowly. “I still don’t know why you feel like you have to go. It’s not like I don’t know who you are.”

Louis sighs and puts down both the tablet and the stylus he had been holding. He moves across the room with an ethereal grace most humans cannot comprehend. Catalina is different; however, because she knows exactly what he is. When he reaches the armchair, he takes her hand and helps her to her feet so he can pull her close. Then he touches Catalina beneath the chin gently so she raises her eyes to his.

“You don’t need me anymore. You haven’t for months now,” he says.

Catalina frowns, shaking her head. “It’s not just about that, Louis. It’s not that I need you around. I want you around. Who else is going to have just as much wanderlust as I do?”

Louis laughs softly, shaking his head. “You’re hardly the only person in the world that likes to travel, Lina. You have a second chance at life and you shouldn’t waste it with me.”

“You’re full of shit,” she replies, though there is no venom in her words. “I can’t imagine having a more interesting companion than you.”

It does not matter what Catalina says, Louis will not stay. He cannot. It is entirely for his own selfish reasons because he hates the idea of staying with Catalina and watching her grow old and die. He has done it before and he does not wish to repeat it. He has learned many lessons over the years but none quite so painful as losing the people you have grown attached to. Now he leaves before it can happen again. He has spent two years with Catalina and now it is time to move on.

Louis knows she will miss him but it is only temporary. Catalina will find another to share her same joys. She is young and vibrant. It is what drew Louis to her two years ago when he had been traveling through Mexico City. Catalina is an artist. She had been selling her art from a makeshift stall during Festival del Día de Muertos in Coyoacán. Louis had not been sure at first what about her art had stuck with him that first night of the festival, only that he had returned the following night. Catalina had spoken to him then, surprised when he replied in her mother tongue. Louis had been happy to continue conversation with her in Spanish until the wee hours of the morning, when the last of festival goers had finally turned in for the night, until he could no longer stay because the sun was creeping over the cityscape. He promised to return the next night. So he did, and for several more nights after the festival ended and they had to move their meeting place to a small cafe down the street.

Louis had mostly remained quiet while Catalina spoke of her art, of her inspiration, and her dreams to travel the world. When she asked questions about him, he gave her simple, modified answers and urged her to continue telling him about her. Catalina had confessed her concerns over disappointing her parents, who were traditional in their beliefs and wished for her to marry a man of status and have a family. She had confessed she had no desire to become romantically or sexually involved with anyone, that she did not want to marry and have children. She simply wanted to be free to live her life and to create art before her time ran out. Louis had been unsure what Catalina had meant by this until three weeks later, when he had found her at his doorstep, sobbing. 

She cried in his arms for hours and he let her, allowing her the time to cry herself into calm where she then told him she had been diagnosed with a rare cancer that there was no treatment for. And when her grief lifted, determination was left behind. 

Catalina was a woman on a mission, turning to holistic healers when modern medicine failed her. When that did not help, she looked to brujería only to have the brujas tell her they were forbidden from changing the course of fate. Catalina had slipped into such a dark place it was reflected in her artwork. Once her work had been bright and full of dreams, not it was a mere shadow of that. It hurt Louis to see her struggle when he knew he could save her, that his own tainted blood could mean the difference between life and death for her.

Six months later, Louis had compelled Catalina’s family and friends into believing she was going away for experimental treatment abroad, which he would be paying for. It was true in some sense, and he had spent enough time with Catalina that she went with him willingly on the promise he would show her the world. 

So Louis showed her the world, taking her any place she wanted to go under the cover of darkness. He knew that spending so much time with Catalina would raise questions. He was surprised when she lasted nearly two months before she asked him what he was as they sat on the balcony of a restaurant in Tuscany under a clear, starry night. She had noticed he did not eat, he did not rise before the sun ever and that her own senses had heightened over their time together since leaving Mexico City. Catalina had never questioned the times he would leave for a few hours though she noticed the difference in him upon his return, after feeding on someone had brightened his skin and his eyes. It would have been easy for Louis to compel her into not asking questions though he could not bring himself to do it. He could not bring himself to toy with her mind after all she had been through. 

He told her the truth, and it took far less time for Catalina to come to terms with that truth than he expected. Louis told her the truth because he wanted to save her. His own blood could do that so long as he was careful. Part of him knew it wasn’t fair to save one person when so many suffered, but Louis had spent several decades learning to ignore his conscience. 

Louis offered Catalina a way to live and she accepted it without question. She wanted to live, to learn, not to die young. She ingested his blood little by little so it would not consume her, and by the time they returned to Mexico City, there was no trace that Catalina had ever been ill. The doctors claimed it was a miracle because there was no scientific explanation for it. Only Louis and Catalina knew the truth and it was a secret he knew she would carry with her forever. 

The clock strikes twelve and Louis is brought back into this moment. It is the new year and he presses a gentle kiss to Catalina’s forehead.

“Happy New Year, love.”


	5. Chapter 5

London, England   
September, 1818

It has been a month since the first night Harry and Louis finally spoke. Each week following, they have met faithfully to talk for hours into the night. Each time learning more and more about one another. And each time growing closer until Louis began to lean comfortably against Harry, his sketchpad always in hand and fingers always stained black from charcoal. Sometimes Harry would tell him stories of the places he has visited in the world, while other times he would listen to Louis speak of his passions, none of which included becoming a barrister. Some nights, they would simply sit together and Harry would watch Louis draw. It was one of his favorite things to do. 

Harry has been lucky because Isabella has not asked after his long walks around the city at night. She is often wrapped up in her affairs with human nobles, playing them like a master violinist. It is easy for her, of course, because she is not only a vampire but a beautiful woman. Beauty can often cause great tragedy when used carelessly, and his sire is often careless with her prey. Louis is beautiful as well, and Isabella enjoys beautiful things. Harry has never held a secret so close to his chest before Louis. If Isabella finds out about the artist, she will expect Harry to share him. And he absolutely does not want to share.

It is by happy coincidence that Isabella announces to him that she will be leaving London for a few weeks. She has become rather fond of the Duke of Norfolk and he has asked her to accompany him home. Harry idly wonders how the duke plans to explain to his wife that he has brought home another woman. Then again, Isabella has never been particularly fussed with things like gender. He asks few questions, his calm demeanor belying his eagerness to have Isabella gone for a time. He is already making plans to have Louis over even though he will have to orchestrate his plan carefully. 

Isabella leaves the next morning and Harry immediately sends a human servant with a note for Louis, asking him to come the following evening after nightfall. 

He spends the night compelling the servants in their home to pay no mind to anything and everything they may see. Later, he will compel them to forget ever seeing Louis at all should Isabella ask them what he did or who he saw while she was away. As far as his sire is concerned, he never keeps secrets from her.

When the servant returns with Louis’ reply, he can barely contain the excitement that races through him. It is something he has not felt in a long time.

The next night Harry has to make quick work of hunting and feeding before Louis comes to his home. The servants make themselves scarce. He does not need them to show hospitality to Louis for him. 

When there is a knock at the front door, it is Harry who answers and he smiles brilliantly to see the man before him. 

“ _ Bonjour _ ,” he says softly, the word practically a purr on his tongue. 

Louis laughs, almost breathlessly. “ _ Bonjour _ .” 

Harry steps aside and gestures for Louis to come inside, closing the door behind him. He watches with a faint smile as Louis looks around, taking in the luxury of his home. He would be lying if he said it did not please him. Harry wants to impress Louis. 

“Do you like it?” he asks. “Let me take your coat.”

“I do,” Louis replies. “Your home is very beautiful. It reminds me a little of my childhood home in Doncaster, only a tad more opulent.” 

Harry grins. “I would be remiss to say I don’t enjoy finer things such as this. It is materialistic, I know, but we all have our vices.”

Louis casts a sidelong glance at him with a grin and says, “Then why have you such interest in me? I hardly qualify as something fine.”

There is an opportunity here, and Harry is not so oblivious as to not take it. He moves in front of Louis and reaches up to brush his knuckles against Louis’ sharp jaw. It is the lightest of touches, and yet Harry can feel the heat coming from the human. He can sense the way Louis struggles, caught between his curiosity and his hesitance. When Harry’s eyes meet Louis’, the striking blue of them might have stolen his breath if he had breath to steal. There is insecurity in those eyes, and Harry is unsure if it is because there is some deep sense in Louis that knows he is a predator, or because of the obvious attraction between them. Neither surprises him. He is a predator, and though men have affairs with other men often it is not something spoken of. 

“I have found no one as fine as you, Louis,” he murmurs. They are so close that he would only have to lean in slightly to kiss the artist. He refrains from doing so and smiles. “Can I get you a drink? Wine, perhaps?” He lets his hand fall from Louis’ face, turns on his heel, and leads him into the kitchen.

Behind him, he can hear Louis’ quick intake of breath and the way his heart beats rapidly in his chest. The echo of footsteps lets him know that Louis is following and Harry leads him into the kitchen. There are two wine glasses and a corked bottle sitting on the counter. It is the only thing other than blood Harry can consume that does not turn to ash on his tongue. He pries the cork from the bottle and pours half a glass for each of them. He hands one to Louis and raises his own in a toast. 

“What are we toasting?” Louis asks, curious.

“To your art,” Harry says, grinning. “So that you may never lose your desire to create a more beautiful idea of the world.” 

Louis laughs softly, shaking his head as their glasses clink together gently. Harry watches as he drinks from the glass, the bob of his throat as he swallows. It is tempting to reach for the artist, to draw him close and breathe in the scent of his skin, to feel the flutter of his pulse against his tongue. Harry is not hungry - he fed before Louis arrived - but he desires the taste of the beautiful human before him more than he has ever craved anything. 

“How is the wine?” he asks, distracting himself. 

Louis considers his answer for a moment. “Rich. I don’t believe I’ve ever had wine quite so flavorful. It tastes...lavish.” His brows quirk teasingly. 

Harry chuckles, shaking his head. “What can I say? I enjoy luxury. What is the point of life if you cannot enjoy it?” 

Louis looks down into his glass and Harry is momentarily concerned that he has offended him. There is an apology on his lips when Louis looks up at him with a hunger in his eyes he has seen before. A hunger for something more than what he has, a life of his own choosing rather than the path set for him. It’s fleeting; however, and soon Louis is shaking his head. The light is gone. 

“Will you play for me?” he ventures. “I’ve shown you my talent. I’d like to see yours now.” 

Harry’s grin is wide. “Of course,  _ monsieur _ . This way.” 

Wine glass in hand, Harry leads Louis from the kitchen and through a short hallway to a spacious drawing room on the right. A set of chairs that are fashionable and yet uncomfortable sit in front of a small fireplace. The fireplace was lit earlier, before Harry dismissed the staff, for the evening and it now burned low behind the mesh screen. Though the chill in the room does not affect him, an imperceptible shiver moves through Louis. Oil lamps are placed intermittently through the room to light it, casting their shadows against the painted white walls. Silk damask drapes are pulled back from the floor to ceiling windows to reveal the bright white of the moon and stars. It sets an almost romantic tone to the room. In the corner of the room stands a polished black grand piano that Harry gestures to. 

“Please, sit down. I will join you in a moment.” 

As Louis moves to sit on the bench, Harry approaches the fire and places two more logs on the glowing embers in the grate. It takes mere seconds before they catch, the fire blazing higher and warming the room. Satisfied, Harry crosses the room and joins Louis on the bench. 

“What will you play for me?” Louis asks, his body angled toward Harry. The light from the fire reflects in his blue eyes, causing something to catch in Harry’s chest. 

Harry’s fingers touch the ivory keys of the piano, a few notes ringing out in the quiet of the room as he makes sure the instrument is tuned. “Anything you would like. Do you have a request?” 

Louis shakes his head. “No. I’m afraid I’m not very well educated in music.” 

“No matter. I will teach you.” Harry smiles as his fingers move along the keys, playing a few notes of a song he had been working on recently. “Perhaps Bach or Beethoven? Mozart?” 

“What is your favorite?” 

A small laugh escapes the vampire and he turns bright eyes on the man next to him. “I would no sooner be able to choose a favorite piece of music than a star in the heavens.” Harry’s fingers position themselves over a specific set of keys. “Though I do love to play Sonata number fourteen. Sonata number eight is not without its charms either.” 

“Then I would like to hear one of those,” Louis murmurs, his eyes falling from Harry’s gaze to his hands at the keys. In the dim light, Harry can see his cheeks burned with a blush. 

Harry smiles as he positions his fingers above the keys once more. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and begins to play. His hands move fluidly over the keys, feeling the smooth ivory beneath his fingertips as the notes resonate throughout the room. Harry doesn’t need to see the keys to play, doesn’t need the sheet music because he has played this piece a thousand times. The notes are burned into his memory. Harry can lose himself in the music for hours. Normally he might if he was not keenly aware of Louis’s presence next to him. The rhythm of Louis’s breathing matches perfectly with the rhythm of his heart. That rhythm speeds up as Harry reaches the crescendo of the piece. Then it begins to fade, the last note softer than all the rest, finite. 

When the echo fades, Harry opens his eyes and looks to Louis. Louis’s eyes are bright, his cheeks pink. Harry wants to take his perfect face into his hands and kiss him until he steals Louis’s breath. 

“Did you enjoy it?” he asks, his voice low. 

“Yes,” Louis breathes. “It was beautiful. Will you play something else? Something of your own.” 

Harry has never been modest. Throughout the years, his hubris has often led to trouble for him and yet he has never been able to truly reconcile with it. Louis is looking at him as though he has done something extraordinary and he revels in it. How can he possibly deny this beautiful creature anything at all? 

It takes all his will to turn away from Louis and focus his attention once more on the piano. Again, there is no sheet music from which he references as he begins to play, the notes moving through his mind, surging down his arms and into his fingers. The song he plays has no name. It is a feeling more than anything. It creates a story of hope and despair, of decades that have seen the rise and fall of regimes and empires. It is a piece that Harry never intended to share with another, but something about Louis makes him want to do just that. Louis makes him want to tell all of his secrets, share all of who he is. The only thing that stops him is fear the truth will be too much, that Louis will be frightened of him. The electricity between them is still tenuous, too new to take such risks. It is a truth that is not entirely his own to tell. 

Harry plays the last note and allows the echo to fade out before he casts a sidelong glance at Louis. Louis’s heart rate has elevated again and keeps a faster rhythm. Harry can see his pulse flutter against the side of his neck. He has to reach for the control he has so carefully curated over time. 

Suddenly, there is much less room between them, each of them leaning toward one another like magnets. Harry shifts on the bench, angles his body toward Louis invitingly. His hand cups Louis’s cheek, warm from blushing, and moves his thumb across Louis’s bottom lip. 

“You are so beautiful,  _ mon chéri _ .” 

Louis closes the distance between them, their lips meeting in a hungry kiss Harry had not been expecting. He returns it with fervor, his teeth grazing Louis’s bottom lip, encouraging him to part his lips. When Louis does, Harry’s tongue slips between them and he shivers as their tongues meet. The soft moan that comes from Louis is so sweet. Fingers curl into his hair, tugging just lightly so that it doesn’t hurt and he echoes Louis’s moan. The blood he consumed earlier in the evening rushes through him to settle in the pit of his stomach and between his legs. The scent of Louis’s arousal surrounds them and Harry breaks the kiss, his lips traveling down the front of Louis’s throat. He shifts to trail kisses along the side of Louis’s neck, his tongue sliding over his fluttering pulse. Harry can practically taste the sweet blood on his tongue and he grits his teeth to tamp down the unnatural desire to bite down. It is more difficult with Louis than it has been with anyone else in a very long time. 

“Harry,” Louis whimpers softly, his head tilted back as he continues to lavish attention on him. “God…”

Louis’s hands are at his face, drawing Harry’s mouth back to his for another passionate kiss. Louis’s body is pressed against his, and he enjoys the way Louis shivers against him, how hard he is. Harry wants to devour him. 

Harry’s hands slide up along Louis’s thigh, to the ties of his breaches to tug then open when Louis breaks the kiss with a gasp. His eyes are glassy, his lips swollen from kissing, and his cheeks flaming. It’s achingly lovely. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I...I should go.” 

Disappointment settles in Harry’s chest but he does not show that on the outside. He smiles softly and caresses Louis’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “Of course,” he says. 

Louis draws in a deep breath and stands from the bench a moment later. Harry follows, leading him from the room and toward the front door. Once they are there, Louis turns to him, looks up at him beseechingly. 

“Will you come to mine tomorrow night? I want to see you again.” 

Harry nods, a small smile playing on his lips. “Yes. Yes, of course. I will come to you after dark.” 

“After dark,” Louis echoes. 

Harry takes hold of Louis’s chin gently, tips his face up, and kisses him sweetly. “Until then.” 


	6. Chapter 6

_ Find what you love and let it kill you. _

-Bukowski

London, England   
June, 1716

Music swells over the cacophony of chatter of the ballroom. A string quintet occupies a corner of the expansive room, their faces flush from playing for nearly three hours. Around the edges of the ballroom are long tables meant to seat dozens of guests. The surfaces of the table are laden with roasted meats and freshly baked bread. Jewel toned fruits are piled high on silver platters and caskets of dark red wine seems to flow endlessly. Those who are not tucking into the food are gathered around the edges of the dance floor, conversing behind milky white hands or decorative fans. The open space of the dance floor is a whirl of silk gowns in nearly every color imaginable. Lavishly decorated masks cover portions of the guests face, offering a certain anonymity and intrigue. One would have to know another very well to recognize them. 

It is no surprise that the ball is opulent. His Majesty never does anything on a small scale. He is a man who enjoys entertainment, festivity. It matters little to him that there is no official reason to celebrate. When the king wants a ball, he gets a ball. 

This is the fifth ball Harry has attended since becoming the court darling. The king and queen, the nobles, love him. Some more than others. They admire his musical talent and his charisma. Ever since he was a child, people found him to be charming and handsome. From a young age, Harry learned that his attractive face afforded him opportunities and he has not always been humble about it. In fact, Harry has often been reckless for the sheer fact he can be. Perhaps it is hubris, or perhaps it is a deep seated desire to be well...desired. No sooner had he reached manhood that people vied for his attention, men and women alike. There was always an edge of danger to whisking away a high noble’s wife or taking a man in the shadows of the castle. Perhaps the truth is that he is a hedonist, forever seeking to be lost in pleasure. One day it may very well catch up to him but he is not worried about that right now. Harry is of noble blood himself, a favorite of the king and queen. He is nearly untouchable.

Tonight the masquerade offers him the same anonymity as everyone else and for once he is grateful for it. Despite the many men and women he has to choose from, there is one that Harry has not been able to pursue. And it is driving him mad. 

Isabella Darlington came to court one month ago. Her husband, a duke from somewhere in the north of England, had passed away in his sleep six months previously. Isabella inherited his fortune, leaving her a very rich widow. Not only is she rich, she is young. No more than twenty-four. She can remarry, produce children for some bachelor. Live comfortably as a wife in mother if she so chooses. It is what most women desire, after all. And Isabella is beautiful. Striking even. She is not very tall though her body curves in all the right places. Golden blond hair is always curled and pinned immaculately with gentle ringlets framing her face. Her eyes are the brightest blue he has ever seen, and there is something almost ethereal about them. An unnaturalness that he cannot quite put his finger on. If it is meant to deter him from pursuing her, it does not. It only intrigues him more. 

One week after her arrival to court, Isabella gave up her mourning black for the fashionable colors of court attire. It had not yet been a year since her husband’s passing and jealous noble women whispered behind their hands over the scandal. Isabella seemed wholly unaffected by this. It made Harry want her all the more. 

But Isabella has hardly given him the time of day. Oh, it is not that she does not notice Harry. She simply smiles sweetly at him, flirtatiously, then denies him the opportunity to converse with her. He knows this game. He has seen it before, played it before, though he is usually the one in control. Being the mouse in this particular game of cat and mouse smarts in a way he has never experienced before. He both loves and hates it though he cannot deny it draws him like a moth to a flame. Isabella burns more brightly than any other at court. Harry wants her. 

Harry brushes past a group of people to stand at the edge of the dance floor. Even though she wears a mask, Harry has identified Isabella on the dance floor. He does not know exactly how he knows which woman is her, only that he does. She wears a silk dress the color of Egyptian blue with gold adornments. It matches nicely with her jeweled mask inspired from a peacock’s feathers. The bodice cinches her waist and the neckline is low enough to nearly be scandalous. The subtle hint of full breasts is tantalizing and Harry’s chest is tight with his longing. She has strung him along for weeks now, and tonight he plans to woo her. 

He watches as Isabella dances flawlessly with the noble, who is nearly twice her age and red faced. The very idea that Isabella could choose someone like him galls Harry. Not when she could have him. Someone who can please her for the sake of pleasure and not to burden her with a baby. Harry has eyes for no one but Isabella and she must feel him watching her because their eyes meet a moment later. She is looking past her dance partner straight at him. The smile that forms on her lips is near wicked. She knows the man behind his mask and Harry's heart stutters. The connection between them is palpable, frenetic. It feels almost dangerous. If he were smarter, Harry would avoid her. He is not. The danger only thrills him that much more. Then she is swept away and Harry breathes deeply. He must be patient.

Opportunity arises a few moments later as the dancing women separate from their partners, forming an outer circle while the men dance in the center. Isabella is not far from him and Harry skirts through the people not dancing. He has precious few seconds before the men find their ladies once more. Harry slips up behind Isabella just as the beat changes, just as the men find their partners. A small gasp leaves her lips as he places a hand at her waist and sweeps her away, leaving her previous partner blinking in confusion. 

“My lady,” Harry says, smirking. “May I have this dance?”

A perfectly shaped eyebrow arches above Isabella’s mask, but there is amusement in her eyes. “Is it not customary to ask a lady for a dance  _ before _ the actual dance?”

Harry nods. “Generally speaking, yes. Alas, I worried that if I waited too long I might never be able to draw you away from Lord Stanley.” He pretends to appear apologetic though he feels no such thing. “Have I assumed too much by believing you were bored with him?”

A soft laugh falls from Isabella’s lips and she grins. “Not really. Though why do you think yourself a better dance partner, my lord?” 

Harry says nothing. Instead he smiles as they continue to waltz around the dance floor, hardly realizing the song and steps have changed. He only has eyes for Isabella as he pulls her body closer so there is hardly more than centimeters between them. Her eyes are so blue, so bright, he could lose himself in them. The blood red of her full lips is sheer temptation. Harry wants to kiss them, bite her bottom lip just to hear her gasp. Such boldness would have the highbrow noblewomen gossiping for weeks about them. No, Harry has to approach this carefully. Thoughtfully. Despite her flirtations, Isabella may still deny him her attention. 

They dance for two more songs before Harry takes her hand and leads her from the dance floor, through the bodies around the edge of the dance floor. He does not speak, does not look back, and trusts that Isabella will follow him. She does without hesitation. Harry leads her out of the ballroom, the halls nearly absent of guests and servants, and out into the queen’s rose garden. Now in the cool night air, Harry realizes how warm it was in the ballroom. 

The moon is full and bright in the sky, casting a white glow over the stone path that winds through the rose bushes. The nighttime summer air is comfortable, neither too hot nor cold. The roses are in full bloom, their scent pleasant on the breeze that wafts over them. Harry has not let go of Isabella’s hand and he smiles when she laces their fingers together. 

They are alone in the rose garden and Harry turns to Isabella, grinning. He reaches up and removes the jeweled mask from her face, then removes his own, allowing them to dangle from his fingers by the straps. “Is it too bold to say that I want to kiss you?” 

“It is too bold,” she says, her expression serious. Harry’s chest constricts, worry taking root in his belly. Then Isabella smiles and his breathing eases. “Too bold but I like that about you, my lord.” 

“Harry,” he says. “Please, call me Harry.”

“Harry,” Isabella echoes. 

The sound of his name on her lips is honey sweet. A pleasant shiver moves down his spine.

“You have toyed with me for weeks,” he says, an edge of playful accusation in his tone. “Do you enjoy bestowing such torment.”

“Oh yes,” Isabella laughs. “What fun would it be to simply give in to temptation? Is it not more satisfying when you finally give in? Allow yourself the thing you desire?”

Harry has not thought of it in such a way. It must show on his face because Isabella’s smile turns smug. She traces the curve of his jaw with a sharp nail, trailing it down the front of his throat. Harry’s throat bobs as he swallows. His body responds even to this simple touch. He has experienced physical attraction many times before but he has never been so desperate for another’s touch. Isabella is like no other man or woman he has known. It feels almost predatory in nature, yet it draws him in instead of warning him away. Harry will gladly allow Isabella to consume every part of him. 

He steps closer, leaving barely any space between their bodies. The pale light of the moon washes over them, making Isabella’s skin seem nearly translucent. Harry’s hand cups her cheek and his voice drops to a low murmur. 

“Will you continue to deny me then?” he asks, his eyes on hers.

Something flashes in Isabella’s eyes Harry cannot quite parse. Her gaze feels...hungry though not in a conventional way. It sends heat spiking through him to settle in the pit of his stomach. 

“No,” she says. “For even I only have so much patience.” 

It is all he needs to hear before he kisses her with little hesitation. Harry’s tongue sweeps past her lips, a soft moan working its way up from his throat. He wraps Isabella up in his arms, their bodies pressed together, that same frenetic energy from earlier washing over them. Isabella’s hands are in his hair, gripping soft brown curls as they kiss. It’s hungry, passionate, wild. It barely soothes the yearning Harry feels for her. He wants to take her apart right now, right here. Then piece her back together so he can do it all over again. Patience. He needs to have patience. 

Sharp teeth nip his lower lip and he gasps. Isabella breaks the kiss and looks up at him with a wanton smile. 

“We ought to return to the ball before someone realizes we are gone.”

Disappointment hits him like a brick wall and it takes all his will to hide it behind a smile. He nods, stepping back to make space between them. His skin is flushed and hot, the cool breeze doing little to soothe him. 

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, of course.” Harry offers his arm like the gentleman he was taught to be. When Isabella takes it, he guides her through the garden and back into the castle. 

Just before they reach the ballroom, Isabella turns to him, smiles at him. “Come to me tomorrow night. I will be waiting for you.” 

Harry does not have a chance to answer before Isabella turns away and he loses her in the swirling movement of lace and silk. In his hand, he still holds her mask and he tightens his trip on the ribbon. Tomorrow night. It seems like an impossibly long time before then. 

He cannot sleep that night. His thoughts are only of Isabella, the kiss they shared, the way her body felt against his. Harry knows if she asked him to get on his knees for her, he would. He also realizes this should concern him. It doesn’t.

Isabella will be the end of him.


	7. Chapter 7

London, England

September 1818

Louis has been able to think of nothing but Harry. As he lay in bed after returning home to his small flat above a bakery, he recalls the evening in his head. Harry’s fingers moving effortlessly along ivory keys, the touch of his lashes against his cheeks when his eyes closed, obviously lost in the moment as music filled the room. For a moment, Harry seemed ethereal, not quite human. The way Louis was drawn to him ought to have been frightening but it was not. Then his mind skips to the moment they kissed, Harry’s lips soft and warm, his hands at his waist. He can still feel the softness of Harry’s hair from when his fingers had been tangled in it. And the memory of Harry’s lips against his neck, his tongue against Louis’s pulse, has him hard and his hand wandering beneath the duvet. He moans Harry’s name into the darkness as he comes in his hand, his heart racing, wishing it was not his own hand on him. 

The next morning he is surprised when there is a knock at his door. Louis opens it to find a boy no older than ten struggling with a rather large package. The relief when Louis takes it from him makes him smile. He asks the boy who the package is from but he does not know. He tips the boy who runs off without another word. 

Louis sets the package on a small table near the kitchenette of his apartment and plucks the envelope that is affixed to the front of the package. There is a wax seal he does not recognize keeping it closed. He breaks the seal and pulls the card from within and there are few words in neat script.

_ Louis,  _

_ Never allow anyone to take from you what you love most. I hope you will find this gift inspiring.  _

_ -H _

A thrill sweeps through Louis as he sets the card and envelope aside. He does not know what Harry could possibly have sent him and his hands tremble faintly as he unwraps the package. 

In the wrapping there is a polished mahogany box with an ornate clasp. Louis bites down on his lower lip as he opens the box and gasps at its contents. In the box is an assortment of art supplies. New charcoal in vivid colors, primary oils paints in small pots, new brushes with fine bristles, and even a set of watercolors. Beneath the jars and pots is a wood palette and a leather bound sketchbook. Louis feels like his heart is in his throat. He has never seen such fine art supplies, never even dreamed of owning them. He knows they must have been very expensive. A small voice in his head tells him he should not accept such an expensive gift from Harry, but he is human and somewhat greedy. He tells himself that returning such a thoughtful gift would be rude and that is that. 

Louis touches each piece in the set reverently, wishing he had the time to open each pot of paint and spend the day creating. Alas, the reality is that he still has his apprenticeship to attend despite how very much he does not want to go. Louis would rather spend the day with his art, attempting to draw Harry’s lovely face from memory. He sighs as he closes the lid on the box and goes to dress for the day. 

Studying law has never been an endeavor he wished for but there are expectations of him as the eldest in his family, the only son. Louis knows his apprenticeship will prepare him for becoming a barrister, that once he has established a career he can return to Manchester and live comfortably. His father will expect him to marry soon after and have children. It is not that Louis does not want a family, he does. He has never not wanted children either. But when he imagines his future family there is a blank space where a wife should be. Only recently has that blankness begun to take shape in the form of a person who is not a woman at all. Louis has not quite been able to reconcile this in his head. He cannot marry a man and he cannot have children with a man. 

He cannot find happiness in a woman. He has known this since he was a boy though he has never spoken of it. Not really. The things he has experienced with men since coming to London required no conversation. 

“Mr. Tomlinson,” a stern voice booms, startling Louis from his thoughts. “Are you with us?”

“Yes, sir,” he says, looking at his mentor sheepishly. “I’m sorry, sir. My mind was wandering.” 

The barrister looks at him balefully. “See that it does not wander any farther.” 

Louis winces, chastened, and looks down to the blank parchment next to a book on law. He sighs, dipping the fountain pen into the inkwell and begins the task of transcribing his mentor’s closing argument for his current case. 

He has made a few friends during his apprenticeship, other young men who are apprenticing for other barristers. They ask him to join them at a tavern nearby for supper and drinks. Louis hesitates at first because Harry is meant to come to him tonight. Though Harry won’t come to him until after dark and there are still hours to go. He relents and follows his friends to the tavern, grateful for the distraction to pass the time. 

Three hours later, full after a meal of venison and ale, Louis enters his flat just as the sun begins to set. He does not know when exactly Harry will come to him so he lights his oil lamps and settles in a chair at the table and opens the box of art supplies. He handles the pots of paint carefully so he does not break them and pulls the leather sketchpad from the bottom. Louis enjoys painting but sketching is his favorite way to pass the time. He takes a brand new piece of charcoal from the set and begins to draw. 

It’s of Harry, of course, since that seems to be the only thing he can really focus on. He sketches the angle of his jaw, the slope of his nose, and full lips. He realizes as the sketch comes together that it is missing something. Something that Louis cannot quite put his finger on. Louis frowns, his brow knitting as he tries to figure out what the sketch is missing. It does not come to him. It is a sign that he needs to step away and come back to it later. Perhaps when Harry finally comes to him, Louis will ask him to sit for him so he can sketch him properly. He smiles at the thought. 

That last light of the day finally gives way to night and Louis draws in a breath. It won’t be long now. 

Louis has never felt so impatient for anything.


End file.
